


Quem Quaeritis?

by Cibeeeee



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Red String of Fate, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-09 10:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14714415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cibeeeee/pseuds/Cibeeeee
Summary: McCree cleared his throat, "Never tried to look for whoever is on the end of that line?"“No,” Hanzo said. “Who would want me as their soulmate?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is nsfw in this chapter, but it won't be heavily focused on in the upcoming plot

“I don’t believe in soul mates,” Lena said.

  
“You only say that because you _are_ with your soul mate.”

  
  
“No way!” Lena laughed. “The first time I saw Emily, I knew I had to do something. I went over, told her an awful joke I saw online. Ridiculous joke, everyone I knew hated it, only I thought it was funny, and she finished the punch line for me!”

  
  
McCree threw back a cup of espresso.

  
  
“You don’t need a red string to know someone is amazing. I didn’t even notice the string until an hour later when I reach to get my wallet to pay for her coffee. That is more of a testimony, don’t you think so? To see someone and know they’re going be worth it.”

  
  
McCree lifted his tired eyes. He remembered the cold, unsettling anger he felt for Hanzo when he first came across him, and a hidden part of him sighed.

  
  
He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

 

Lena seemed to notice McCree’s sullenness, then her face fell, upset with herself for forgetting the rocky start McCree had with his lover.

 

She tentatively spoke again, “You don’t seem like the type to care.”

 

McCree huffed. “I don’t. I’m not the one that started this conversation.”

 

“Oh – right, because of the new breakthrough with breaking soulmate strings?”

 

“Seems awfully dumb to me,” McCree said.

 

Lena scratched her nose. “Humans can’t stand the thought of a predestined life, but they also can’t help but try to look for whoever is on the other end of the line.”

 

McCree stared at his own, wrapped around his pinky, stretched across the room, out the window, and past the ocean – beyond his horizon.

 

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hanzo and McCree came together on a fine evening sitting in a pile of rubbles and grimes and questionable liquids leaking out of some of the dead bodies scattered around them. Waiting for the extraction was almost always the worst part, in McCree’s opinion. The adrenaline from the battle had past and the pain had started to settle in, and it wasn’t like their fights happen in a five-star hotel where maybe he could find a soft mattress to rest on while waiting hours for an uncomfortable flight.

 

Usually it was like this. Resting in ruins, occasionally groaning from multiple wounds and the increasing ache from sitting on hard concerts.

 

Though usually, he didn’t have a companion. Hanzo held the lighter still for him as McCree lit up a cigarillo, and let Hanzo took the first drag. Hanzo breathed in long and hard, nostril flaring, then he placed the smoke between McCree’s lips for him.

 

McCree inhaled deeply, breathing out the smoke. His dislocated arm still made him twitched with pain every now and then. McCree cursed, shifting his body so he could lay his head on Hanzo’s shoulder.

 

Hanzo tensed. “McCree, if you fall asleep…”

 

“Give me a break,” McCree groused. “I’m not gonna. Consider this a return of favor for when I stayed up with you and get drunk after you locked yourself in for a week straight.”

 

Hanzo barked a laugh. “I had to clean up your puke from the vent in the morning, was that not returning the favor?”

 

“I thought we agreed we’ll never speak of that incident again.” McCree pressed his face into Hanzo’s shoulder.

 

Hanzo very carefully reached up and carded his fingers through McCree’s hair when McCree jolted again from sudden pains. McCree bit back a groan. Hanzo’s fingers rubbed a soothing pattern into his scalp.

 

They didn’t leave each other’s side when the transport came, finding the warmth of other more relieving than any drugs the doctors could give. They parted only for surgeries.

 

Angela was alerted about Hanzo leaving his medical bed at three a.m. She found him by McCree’s bed, falling asleep with his hand clenched in McCree’s.

 

McCree’s eyes were imploring of her. Angela left them as they were.

 

 

* * *

 

 

McCree didn’t like Hanzo at first.

 

For a whole lot of reasons – and most agents believed it was because of his loyalty to Genji, but in actuality, that reason ranked pretty low on why McCree hadn’t liked Hanzo. The first and foremost reason for his enmity was that McCree thought Hanzo was kinda an asshole.

 

Which was rich coming from McCree. People perceived him as charming, polite, smooth, while those were all qualities the gunslinger possessed, it took up about ten percent of his person, with the rest of ninety just brimmed with bitterness, western movies, and booze. The ten percent of decentness were just lucky enough to be on the countenance.

 

Some of the old guards of Overwatch knew how brash and rude he could get when rubbed the wrong way, but McCree usually got the sense to walk away before it escalates to that point.

 

Hanzo just had the unfortunate quality of being too similar to McCree, resulting in a mutual distaste as soon as they laid eyes on one another.

 

McCree sighed, he should have known the acrimony between them wasn’t stemmed from how much they clashed, instead of from how much they matched. Hanzo writhed and moaned under him, fitting so perfectly against McCree’s body he hardly remembered how much they tried to stay away from each other in the first few months of their alliance.

 

Hanzo grabbed McCree by the hair and yanked him down into a sloppy, fumbling kiss. McCree’s body jerked slightly from the blinding arousal when Hanzo pressed his free hand behind McCree’s balls, then cupping them roughly.

 

Hanzo released McCree and let the man fall to the mattress before seizing him again. One sweaty, searing palm on McCree’s cock, jerking him off with all the intensity and focus to finish McCree off with the most torturous pleasure ever. The other hand roamed McCree’s body, feeling the spasming muscles, blissfully closed eyes and a mouth that couldn’t stop moaning even if someone held a gun to his face.

 

McCree threw his head back and yelled, twitching in Hanzo’s hand.

 

Hanzo kissed him through it, and McCree wondered how on earth could he had stayed away from this man at all.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Three years,” McCree said. “Three years we’ve known each other, and you’re telling me this now?”

 

“I did not think _this_ would be a problem.”

 

“How could you not like that movie? It’s a damn delight!”

 

“I don’t dislike it, I just think it is average.”

 

McCree let out a breath. “Partner, you’re really testing me right now.”

 

Hanzo let out a low laugh. “I hope our relationship survive this conundrum.”

 

McCree pretended to try and shove Hanzo over the safety railing, and Hanzo replied he would rather fall down the cliff than say he think that movie was as good as Jesse said it was. McCree whacked Hanzo with his hat at that. They both tried to bite back their smiles and fail rather spectacularly.  

 

Hanzo settled back on the chairs they brought out long ago, when it was apparent they would spend many more evenings by this cliffside. It was a pair of old, rusty folding chairs they found in one of the storages. Hanzo had spent hours scrubbing them clean and McCree changed all the broken rivets. Winston offered them some of the good chairs in the common room, but they refused politely.

 

The sunset gleamed red before them, Hanzo caught the reflection off the thin red string around his finger and turned his gaze away, grabbing the bottle of bourbon on the ground.

 

“Lena told me about the conversation you two had the other day,” Hanzo said.

 

McCree’s head dropped dramatically. He sighed and pushed off the railing, joining Hanzo, groaning all the while sitting down like he wasn’t a skilled fighter but some tired suburban working father. Despite Hanzo’s gloom, he pursed his lips, fighting another smile.

 

“We were just chatting over some news. I didn’t even bring it up.”

 

Hanzo nodded. He knew which news McCree was referring to. Destroying soulmates bonds when circumstances deny two people of being together. “I saw one of the opposition said the best kind of love is the kind you cannot have. It sanctifies that love, or your beloved.”

 

He passed the bottle, McCree took a sip, tilting his head back, considering his words.

 

“Like Petrarch to Laura de Noves?” The name rolled off McCree’s tongue sweet enough for Hanzo to want to cease this conversation and do things to McCree that would get them lectured by Winston again. But he swallowed back his urges, opted to just admire how McCree’s lips stretched around the bore of the bottle.

 

“Or Dante to Beatrice,” Hanzo added.

 

“Boccaccio to Maria...” McCree said.

 

“You ever wonder why these were all at the hands of men?” Hanzo smirked.  
  
McCree cackled. “Women had more to worry about than love.”

 

They lapsed into a silence. The sun was completely gone now, leaving them with stretches of purple water and clouds. Speckle of stars shone dimly, some right above the sea. Hanzo looked long and hard at the horizon, wondering where his little red line disappeared to between the stars.

 

“You know who it is, don’t you?” Hanzo asked.

 

McCree turned to look at Hanzo. Hanzo stared at the furthest point of his red string, then to McCree.

 

“Yes,” McCree replied.

 

Despite guessing it, Hanzo’s chest still tightened. McCree held his gaze calmly.

 

A question was halfway out of Hanzo’s lips, but he coughed suddenly, changed his mind midway, and decided to ask first, “Do you mind me asking?”

 

McCree smiled softly at him, taking Hanzo’s hand in his and squeezed. “Not at all, sweetheart.”

 

“Who is it?”

 

“Some guy.”

 

“You do not know his name?”

 

“Didn’t ask.”

 

Hanzo frowned. “Why?”

 

McCree shrugged. “Didn’t feel right.”

 

A low static crackled above them as the florescent nightlights turned on, droning on in the backdrop of their conversation. Hanzo wondered if he should keep asking, a burn in his stomach begged him to continue, yet another voice screamed in his head tells him to bite his tongue off and never speak of this again.

 

“Where did you find him?” Hanzo asked, hoping this was a safe enough question to know the answer to.

 

“In Disneyland – don’t laugh,” McCree asked fretfully. “I was only there to investigate someone who was using the costumes to smuggle drugs.”

 

Hanzo snickered. “Did you have to wear one to blend in?”

 

McCree’s face fell. “No, they thought I was already wearing a costume.”

 

Hanzo couldn’t help the bark of laugh that escaped him. McCree turned away, sulking.

 

“I’m sorry,” Hanzo brought their still joint hands to his lips, gently soothing McCree with kisses on his knuckles. The gunslinger huffed little and resumed.

 

“I saw him, walking with a group – I assumed they were his friends. Dunno, just didn’t feel right. I turned a corner, but he saw me already.”

 

McCree’s face was impassive, the cold white lights above them cast a shadow on him, narrowing his face into a mask. “He started running and shouting with his friends, trying to find me. I was already hiding and just watched them run around like headless gooses, looking for someone he doesn’t even know. Rubs me the wrong way.”

 

He sighed, running his hand through his hair, messing it around. Hanzo slumped back in his chair. A _thought_ settled in his mind, growing like cancer.

 

McCree cleared his throat. “Do you…?”

 

“No,” Hanzo said.

 

“Never tried to look?”

 

Against his better judgment, Hanzo drew his attention back to his own translucent line. Sometimes out of the corner of his eyes, Hanzo would mistake the string for a rivulet of blood, and he would relish in a brief and knowingly false wish that somehow the obstinate string had been ripped from his body.

 

It fluttered in the wind, from his finger, past the railing, and into the now dark sky with countless stars cut out against the void. The red vanished into the roaring sounds of waves, and McCree followed Hanzo’s gaze out to the sea.

 

“No,” Hanzo said. “Who would want me as their soul mate?”

 

“What?” McCree asked. “What – what did you say, sweetheart?”

 

Hanzo should have known despite not understanding what he said, McCree could still notice the virulent chord behind them. Hanzo suddenly felt like his whole body was being weighed down by the leaden lethargy he had been fighting since he heard about McCree discussing soulmates. Hanzo loathed his foible when it came to Jesse. He felt the _thought_ stick to his mind.

 

“Let’s go back, Han,” McCree murmured, picking up the bottle. Hanzo didn’t move at first, but McCree tugged on their hands – did they never release the hold? – and pulled Hanzo to his feet easily despite how heavy Hanzo felt at the moment.

 

McCree continued to tug on Hanzo, until he was almost burying his nose into Jesse’s smoke-stained beard. Hanzo inhaled lightly, grabbed McCree’s scruff and pulled him in.

 

_Here is my place,_ Hanzo thought, and deep down, he knew it was merely a wish.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It had been two weeks since Hanzo stayed over in his room. Two weeks, with no mission, no extra work, no special gathering on base that would strain Hanzo out enough that he needed more personal time than usual.

 

For the past two weeks it had been McCree who went to seek out Hanzo, and Hanzo acted so withdrawn McCree felt like the man didn’t even realize he was there.

 

So McCree hung back, tried to give Hanzo his unspoken need for space, only to find out that if he didn’t actively seek Hanzo out, he didn’t see him at all.

 

“Did he do something?” Genji said. “I apologize now if he did.”

 

“He didn’t do anything, Genji,” McCree said.

 

Genji wanted to help, McCree could tell, but if he was speaking to McCree about this, it meant he already tried his brother and failed. He would rather not drag Genji into this, no matter the promise Genji made to them when he found out he and Hanzo were dating.

 

“My brother and I drifted apart,” Genji said, voice somber. “Though he is still the same as I remember in some way. Hanzo tends to think of the worst-case scenario. He says it is being practical. I say it is being a coward. But I would let you decide.”

 

Genji gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, leaving McCree to weigh his mind.

 

This was something he was not accustomed to. If someone wanted nothing to do with McCree, McCree turned his heels and walked away. The hiccup was, Hanzo wasn’t just anyone, and instead of walking in the opposite direction, McCree sulked in his own empty room for a few days, drinking and nursing a gradually enervating body and a careering heartache before working himself up to talk to Hanzo.

 

Though he was perhaps forced to work himself up, because today a team was due to be in New Zealand for an extraction of a chemical weapon, and both of them were on this mission. McCree figured if they were going to be stuck on an over ten-hour flight, he might as well use it.

 

Not surprisingly, Hanzo was already at the hanger waiting for the rest of the team and offered McCree a slight nod when he saw him sauntered up with Lúcio, without any intention to close the distance between them, opt to just stand near the exit. Lúcio gave McCree a worrying look, to which McCree responded with grim silence.

 

They left in the early morning, most agents settled into their seat and slept. McCree did choose to sit right next to Hanzo, without any space between them. Hanzo greeted him coolly, like how a college would, not like a partner.

 

“‘S there anything you would like to tell me?” McCree murmured, staring ahead, knowing he would have to face Hanzo later in the conversation. Dragging out the inevitable.

 

“No.” Hanzo’s gaze was to somewhere far-off too.

 

“Wanna give me an explanation on the silent treatment recently?”

 

“Am I not conversing with you now?”

 

“Don’t bullshit me, Shimada.” McCree’s tone was calm, but the dumbest of humanity could tell the indignation behind it. “I want to know why you feel the need to lacerate me out of the fucking blue. Give me an explanation.”

 

Hanzo turned to regard McCree, and McCree could see the shock and contrite in the lines between his brows. Like he didn’t know his silence could cause someone else to feel so distressed, like if he had dropped off the face of the earth, no one would stop and wonder if anything was different. And McCree felt like he had been carrying the sadness of the whole heaven when a beloved saint died, though Hanzo was no saint, and McCree loved deeper than the heavens.

 

He hated himself for being born to be so fervent, when he knew he would have survived better without a heart. But the truth was: he was scared of losing Hanzo, and it felt like so.

 

“It’s all the soulmate talk, ain’t it?” McCree said.

 

“I did not mean to hurt you in any way, Jesse, believe me.” Hanzo pushed McCree’s hat up to look at him better. “I am sorry. I needed to think.”

 

“Of what?”

 

“Could we possibly discuss this after the mission?”

 

“Maybe this is the mission that kills us,” McCree rasped out. “We don’t get the luxury of waiting, Hanzo.”

 

Hanzo waved his hand, irritated. McCree caught it and pushed it back down.

 

“Talk to me, Hanzo. We didn’t come so far from hiding.”

 

Hanzo pursed his lips. “I am afraid of losing you.”

 

McCree let out a breath and his hands dropped. “What?”

 

“We have the unfortunate luck of living in a romantic world. We have – _soul mates_ , does that not seem ridiculous to you?”

 

Hanzo was staring at his hand, at the red string McCree could not see. He glanced at his own and turned to look hard at Hanzo. “I told you –”

 

“But it exists, and it is a part of us,” Hanzo said. “And it must mean something if it’s tied around us, does it not?”

 

“Hanzo…” McCree said tentatively. “Where is this going?”

 

“Even if people say soulmates are not definite.” Hanzo’s head dropped back and hit the metal wall with a dull thud. “Even so, people still scramble to look for the person on the other end. Websites, companies, and luck – all trying to help people look for their soulmates. And I fear, somewhere down this relationship, you would realize I am not good for you, and maybe you were intended for someone else.”

 

McCree reeled back. “You gotta be fucking with me.”

 

“No.”

 

“I don’t – give a rat’s ass about that guy,” McCree whispered.

 

“I am not saying you do,” Hanzo said. “I am saying you _might_.”

 

McCree gaped at Hanzo, dumbfounded. Hanzo threw an arm across his eyes, letting out a sigh.

 

Neither of them said another word for the rest of the flight. From the other side of the metal confinement, Lúcio glanced sadly at them.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> description of canon-typical violence and of burn wounds

Maybe this was the mission that killed McCree. But at least he would die from doing something good.

 

“Shut up,” Hanzo said through the comm. “Just stop it with your bullshit and tell me where you are.”

 

McCree groaned out the answer, he wasn’t about to not follow proper procedure even if he thought it was his last breaths.

 

“Hanzo – ”

 

“I am coming, just stay in the shadows and I will find you.”

 

“Did those two kids get out – ?”

 

“Yes, they are fine. Lúcio is with them now. Stop talking.”

 

McCree did stop – and Hanzo bit down the fear that swelled up even though McCree would have a better chance of surviving if he saved his breaths. His location was closest to Hanzo’s only because he was the first on the team to follow McCree when he broke off to save two stranded kids. McCree drew the enemies away from civilians so Lúcio could whisk those children away. Now he was facing three squads alone, and the only comfort Hanzo had was that he knew McCree was smart enough to pick his fight.

 

Hanzo broke into the warehouse, an arrow already knocked and fired at one mercenary’s ear as he called for backup into an earpiece. He snapped his bow, retracted it to a bo staff and impaled it clean through the man’s throat.

 

He stuck to the wall and high pillars. The further he went into the warehouse, the darker his surrounding gets. He fired a sonic arrow.

 

McCree was at the lower level, and there were two separate squads looking for him.

 

“McCree,” Hanzo whispered into his comm. “Two teams, each five. Coming right to you. Stay low. Make a noise if you copy.”

 

“Uh-huh,” came McCree’s infuriatingly nonchalant reply. “I think one is coming from behind though.”

 

Hanzo picked up his pace. Around the corner he saw a shadow, and the neck snap was quick to follow. The dead man’s companion soon pointed their weapons at him, but Hanzo already climbed up and shot three soldiers coming from the opposite catwalk.

 

Hanzo shot another arrow towards the path he came from, knocking over a crate. Both squads snapped their attention to the noise and shuffled cautiously toward the noise as Hanzo continued making his way to McCree.

 

He came to a screeching halt at a huge gap where the catwalk suddenly ends. Hanzo scanned around for anything that could help him cross. No ropes. The crane beams were too high to get to, nor were there any cranes to hold onto. He wouldn’t be able to make the jump, and going back to try and find another way would just waste time –

 

“Hanzo,” McCree murmured. Hanzo’s fists tightened when he heard footsteps joining McCree’s word through the comm.

 

“I am coming for you,” Hanzo said into the abyss in front of him. He readied an arrow, stepped back, and ran toward it with unthinking blindness.

 

Right before he knew he would begin to fall, Hanzo released the arrow, and pressed the button.

  
  
The arrow exploded, sending an echoing boom throughout the warehouse. The blast caught Hanzo’s side, burnt through his skin, send him crashing into the platform. Hanzo caught the edge, his ear ranged with roaring pain. He couldn’t hear through the tinnitus to know if he succeeded stifling his distressed groan when he pushed himself up with his injured arm. Hanzo swallowed thickly, moving forward instantly. He didn’t know if it was a good thing that he could still feel pain; on one hand, it meant the burn wasn’t serious enough that it damaged his nerves, on the other hand, he still needed to draw his bow with the arm.

  
  
McCree’s form was blended into the shadows, and Hanzo wouldn’t have seen him if he wasn’t looking. The explosion distracted the enemy enough for them to stop their search. Hanzo shot one straight through the heart (on any other day, it would have been to the head), the charred skin on his arm breaking and bleeding with each draw. The next arrow hit another heart.

  
  
More people appeared from the back of the warehouse, and soon it was clear he didn’t have enough arrows for this fight. With an agonizing huff, Hanzo blinked away the dizziness, knocked one final arrow.

  
  
The electricity that passed through his whole body scorched his wounded flesh once more. The smell of burning was left behind as Hanzo jumped from his perch and ran towards McCree.

  
  
McCree’s nose wrinkled at the smell of burnt flesh, and Hanzo shushed him before he could talk. The man’s neck was bleeding, thankfully the slash missed the artery. He had two broken ribs and three more gunshots to the chest. The armor took most of the damage, but Hanzo’s mind spun at the possibility of internal bleeding.

   
  
“Lúcio is on his way,” Hanzo said. “McCree?”

  
  
McCree groaned, then made no other noises. Hanzo took off his ribbon and wrapped it around McCree's neck, pressing his palms to the wound for pressure. McCree made no noise, but opened his eyes to look at Hanzo. Through the industrial walls, they could hear Lúcio’s music. McCree’s breathing slowed to normal. Hanzo’s wounds reduced to a dull ache, although it may be because he was slowly passing out.

  
  
Reinhardt helped Lúcio moved Hanzo onto a gurney first. When Reinhardt picked the unconscious archer up, he heard a struggled breath coming from behind, followed by hoarse coughing. The sound of blood mixing with air.

 

Lúcio’s voice came in response, “Easy, man. Don’t talk.”

 

But McCree talked anyway. As Reinhardt lowered Hanzo onto the bed, he heard it again, followed by words that were uttered with pain and worry. McCree’s voice was fucked, still, he reached out a hand as though he could touch Hanzo, shaking with blood loss. Eyes imploring, “ _Be careful with him_.”

 

Reinhardt nodded gravely, placed a palm over his heart in promise. McCree slumped back, eyes sliding closed.

 

“He’ll be fine,” Lúcio said, wrapping McCree up. “You’ll both be fine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It's quite an undertaking to start loving somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment right at the start where you have to jump across an abyss: if you think about it you don't do it.” 
> 
>  
> 
> ― Jean-Paul Sartre, _Nausea_


	5. Chapter 5

The rolling sound of IV pole pacing back and forth outside of McCree’s room waked him up slowly. At first he thought it was just noises from a dream and he grasped at the tail of sleep, but Athena’s voice came from the speaker beside his hospital bed, “Agent Hanzo is waiting for you to wake up. Do you wish to rest?”

 

McCree shook his head, eyes still waking up. “No,” he replied hoarsely, barely aware that he was talking. “I want him.”

 

There was a brief moment of silence where the rolling sound stopped. Then the door opened, Hanzo’s face appeared around the corner, making sure Jesse was awake.  

 

“I’m up, sweetheart,” McCree said softly. Hanzo shut the door behind him and sat down next to the bed, adjusting his patient gown and IV. McCree winched at Hanzo’s fully wrapped arm. “Oof, that looks bad.”

 

“It was bearable under the circumstances,” Hanzo said. “Lúcio said there would be little to no scarring.”

 

“Can you still draw your bow?”

 

“With the right rehabilitation, just as it could before.”

 

McCree closed his eyes. “I’m real sorry, Hanzo.”   

 

“You do not have to be. You know that.”

 

“I know. Can’t help it.”

 

Hanzo stood and brushed McCree’s hair back, leaving a kiss on his forehead. “Would you like something to drink?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Hanzo poured McCree a glass of water and gave it to the man. Angela had said to limit McCree’s movements to only absolute necessity, and Hanzo would consider letting him drink his own water one of those.

 

He did, however, took the liberty of bringing one of his hairbands. McCree smiled dopily when Hanzo took it out, tilting his face upward to let Hanzo put it on, pushing all his greasy hair away from his face.

 

“That’s much better.” McCree scratched his forehead. He didn’t have a chance to wash his hair yet and having loose hair poking his face was getting on his nerves.

 

“How are you feeling?” Hanzo asked when McCree lightly scratched the gauze around his neck.

 

McCree smiled reassuringly. “Just uncomfortable. Nothing big.”

 

Hanzo’s hands fidgeted with McCree’s IV tube, wrapping it around his fingers but always careful enough to not disturb the cannula attached to McCree’s skin. Hanzo looked like he wanted to say something, and McCree looked like he was ready to reply to whatever Hanzo wanted to say. But they both felt just tired enough to let it slide for now. Until Athena’s voice came again.

 

“Agent Hanzo. Doctor Ziegler is requesting you to return to your medical bed. She did not give you clearance yet.”

 

“Well,” McCree chuckled. “She took longer to figure out you were gone this time.”

 

“I told her Agent Hanzo went to the restroom. It may have taken her a while to notice.”

 

“Athena, you sly woman,” McCree praised.

 

“I will see you later.” Hanzo stood, letting go of McCree’s IV. It slipped away from his fingers. “Thank you, Athena.”

 

“You are welcome, Agent.”

 

When Hanzo got to the door, McCree called out to him again. Hanzo turned with one eyebrow raised.

 

“Thank you,” McCree said. “For looking out for me.”

 

Hanzo gazed at McCree silently, and nodded.

 

McCree slumped back into his bed.

 

McCree was stuck to bedrest for three weeks. Hanzo was out in a week, but spend most of his time with Lúcio for physical therapy and tissue recovery treatment. The man took all this in stride; it wasn’t the first time Hanzo had injuries that hindered his ability to draw weapon, and this certainly was not the worst.

 

After his session with Lúcio, Hanzo would come and sit by McCree’s bed with a book. They take turns reading out loud, and while their choice of literature was short, trashy romance novels that, on any normal day, should have burn through with lightning speed, it took days to finish one because both of them had to constantly pause so they could catch their breath from laughing at the other’s impression of the characters.

 

Angela always came in when one of them was choking on laughter, whether it was because Hanzo was trying to put on a Russian accent for the Siberian werebear character or McCree was trying to figure out how a robot could have sex with a sentient blob by reenacting it. They always got chewed out by the doctor for putting McCree through the risk of tearing his stitches, even though McCree argued that her skills were way too good for that to happen.

 

The doctor only rolled her eyes, sighed and returned to her work immediately after checkup, leaving two of their deadliest agents behind to crack each other up.

 

She wouldn’t say. But after knowing Jesse to be the politely distant man, with more anger to him then he let on, it was comforting to see him laugh like that.

 

Angela stepped into her office and was greeted by Genji, already sitting in the guest chair.

 

“I brought you coffee,” Genji said, pushing a mug forward. “And I used your favorite cup.”

 

“Just because it is my favorite does not mean it is mine,” Angela replied, accepting it anyway. The mug had galloping horses printed on it. It was the tackiest thing Angela ever seen in her life, and she honestly wasn’t sure why she liked it so much. She argued it was the size. It held more coffee.

 

“Jesse isn’t going to be using it anyway.” Genji had his faceplate off, and he was enjoying a cup of Earl Grey himself. “How are them?”

 

Angela smacked her lips and put the coffee down. She would never be so crude in front other people, but Genji had seen her through her worst as well as she had seen his. Angela ruffled her always-impeccable-in-public hair and left it messy. “They are enjoying themselves.”

 

Genji’s eyes widen in horror, and she cut him off before he could say anything. “Just making fun of some books.”

 

He sighed in relief. “I am surprised,” Genji admitted. “I thought they would both be bored out of their minds confined to resting. McCree’s anger during bedrest back in Blackwatch often rivaled mine, and I thought I would find Hanzo sulking in his room.”

 

Genji said this with an impassive tone. Angela gently pat Genji’s shoulder.

 

“They’ve changed,” Angela said. “Since they gotten together a while ago.”

 

“This change appeared not long ago,” Genji said. “They are different with each other. Love does that, I suppose.”

 

“Do you think it is love?”

 

“How can it not be?” Genji fixed her with a stare. “I am glad to see the change. I brought Hanzo here so he could move on. McCree is helping him do that.”

 

“Jesse changed as well, don’t you think?” Angela asked quietly. “I rarely saw him like this back in the day.”

 

He knew what the doctor was thinking, the image of McCree during the dawn of Overwatch, right before he disappeared from everyone’s life. Genji took another sip of tea. “He wasn’t happy back then.”

 

Genji stared at the tea. “Very few were happy back then.”   

 


	6. Chapter 6

“How did this place get so dirty in a few weeks?”

 

“I should have thought of coming in and cleaning it for you,” Hanzo said, and got alarmed when McCree moved to shake the dust out of the curtains. Hanzo moved away, but was too late; a sneeze sneaked up on him. McCree started at the magnitude, and as usual, he shot an amused look at Hanzo. Hanzo glared at McCree’s expression – it wasn’t his fault that his sneeze could scare any living beings twenty-kilometers around him, all the men in his family were loud sneezers.

 

Still, Hanzo retreated into the washroom until McCree was finished with his shakings and slapping of various cloths in the room. He leaned on the sink, absentmindedly picked up McCree’s aftershave, and without thinking, put some on his cheeks. It smelled like generic men hygiene products, and Hanzo secretly decided to pick up a different brand for McCree to try (even though he tells himself this every time he smell it on McCree – but whenever he got around to shopping, he always end up buying McCree’s usual brand for him, thinking it was not so bad).

 

“Okay, I’m done,” McCree called. Hanzo put back the aftershave.

 

McCree had opened the window. The air filled the room in gushes of cold, salty wind, clearing out weeks of emptiness. Hanzo inhaled, decided that cleaning was a better use of insomnia than all those horrible movies the watchpoint provide. The room was dim from the men’s habit of leaving any artificial lights off during the night. McCree poked the small cactus on his desk, it flourished under negligence, growing a pair of light green bunny ears. McCree looked disappointed that his tiny friend seemed to be better off without him than with him

 

Hanzo grabbed the hamper filled with dirty laundry (some of his own clothes was among them, which he did not remember leaving them here). McCree abandoned his lonely cactus and took two long strides to Hanzo, reaching for it.

 

Hanzo pulled it out of reach, “What are you doing?”

 

“Your arm is still recovering, let me take that.”

 

“This is coming from the man who refused my help with getting coffee beans down from the shelves,” Hanzo said. “Or are you implying I cannot handle my injuries as well as you?”

 

McCree huffed a breath, crossed his arm under his armpits as though he was stopping them from going to help Hanzo. “Alright, you sly bastard you can carry the damn basket.”

 

But when Hanzo turned to walk away, McCree stopped him. “Later, though. I need to talk to you.”

 

Hanzo reluctantly put it down, and let himself be guided to the bed. McCree picked up a cigarillo, paused, let it simply hang from his fingers.  

 

“Before the mission, you told me you were afraid I would leave and go look for my soulmate.”   


The sound of waves crashing against the cliff sounded loud in their ears all the sudden. Hanzo gazed steadily at McCree. The man’s hands were fidgeting with the cigarillo, but his eyes were fixed on the ocean. The moon reflected on the dark water, McCree traced the shape with his cigar.

 

“Do you still think that?” McCree asked.

 

“Yes,” Hanzo replied.

 

McCree pressed the heel of his hands to his face and let out a shaky sigh. “Hanzo…”

 

“But I have made up my mind.”

 

“What? About what? You’re gonna hunt the guy down and kill him?”

 

“About staying with you until that day come.”

 

McCree flicked the cigarillo. It was carried off by the wind. Hanzo watched it slam mutely to the rocks before disappearing into the dark waters. McCree’s voice dragged Hanzo back. “Tell me you’re joking.”

 

“Why would I joke about this?”

 

“Because I rather believe you have a sick sense of humor than you just tryin’ to hurt me.”

 

“Hurting you is not my intention. Honesty is.” Hanzo’s tone was so infuriatingly calm, so calm it was obvious that he had thought this conversation through. McCree thought back to the weeks of their convalescences, how everything seemed perfect despite their physical pains. McCree had solaced himself in Hanzo’s smiles, thinking he had proved his heart to Hanzo successfully.

 

Had Hanzo done so when he was watching McCree over in his sleep? Or was it when McCree woke from his drug-induced slumber, and held him, comforted by Hanzo’s presence; was Hanzo thinking about McCree’s soulmate instead of him?

 

McCree couldn’t come up with any retort, so Hanzo continued, “I am not saying it will happen, only that I am content with the possibility.”

 

“What about me?” McCree murmured. “I’m not fine with you thinking that.”

 

“I am only being realistic. The fact is that the majority of the world end up with their soulmate, or spends most of their time looking for them.”

 

“That’s not being realistic, that’s just being an asshole.” McCree laughed. His voice sounded worse than every time he woke from a surgery. It felt worse, too. “Though some people think that’s the same thing.”

 

“There must be a reason why most people choose their soulmate. Why would this string exists if not – ”

 

“There is,” McCree said. His face hurt from keeping it intact. He felt his wounds throb. The ocean breezes no longer serve to bring any chills to the room. “There is a godforsaken reason. It’s called being cowards.”

 

Hanzo reeled slightly from the ferocity of McCree’s tone. McCree got to his feet, crouched slightly; his hand clutched his stomach, counting his breaths, hoping his heart would squeeze less tightly.

 

“Jesse, are you well?” Hanzo stood too, palm unnaturally warm, and McCree wondered how in the world could Hanzo asked him that.

 

“How can I be?” he murmured. “You’re not putting faith in me.”

 

“That is not what I meant.”

 

“That’s what I hear,” McCree said.

 

“Soulmates are – ”

 

“Stop,” McCree pushed Hanzo away. “Stop. Saying that – word. There’s not a more overrated word in the world.”

 

McCree turned to face Hanzo, and the man looked ethereal, backlighted by the moon, standing in McCree’s room like this. Hanzo was cut from pieces, sharp cheekbones, sharp attitude, and sharper mind. McCree never paid that string any mind when he was in Hanzo’s presence, but it seemed to be all that Hanzo notice despite not being able to see it.  

 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about soulmates,” McCree said. “I don’t believe in a person that is destined to be yours, red string or not. I believe in work, and I think life is work and it kicks you in the ass. I’ve worked my whole life to survive, to – help people, to redeem my past mistakes, and I don’t want a love that comes on a silver platter. I’ve spent all my early life taking orders, I ain’t letting some string tell me what I should do.” McCree stared Hanzo in the eyes, and it was harder than he thought because Hanzo looked so _scared_. “So cut this out and tell me, do you want me? Or do you want to find out what is at the end of that string? Either way I’ll accept.”

 

“Maybe I’ll be good enough for you,” Hanzo said. The words were accompanied by a kind of trepidation McCree rarely see in Hanzo. “However, I do not know if I am sure of that possibility.”

 

“All ‘m asking if I’m worth the maybe,” McCree stepped forward and took Hanzo’s hands in his, bringing them to his lips. They were full of callous, like his own. McCree’s lips caressed the rough part of Hanzo’s fingers. He was always more in love with the harshness of this man than the smoothness. “Because for the first time in my life, I’ve found someone that made me want to rip this string off my hand – I’m not ready to give up on you yet.”

 

Hanzo gazed at McCree in front of him, pouring his heart out for someone like Hanzo – who managed to make the one person he cared about the most to be so crestfallen– maybe McCree did not notice the sodden state of his own eyes, and thought Hanzo was the one with the heaviest heart. Hanzo pulled McCree up, kissing the sad lines between McCree’s brows.

 

He didn’t know if he wanted to let McCree risk his time on a man who in the end –might not be worth it at all. Hanzo kissed McCree, with apologies heavy on his lips, and wondered how the hardest problem just became harder.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something from the past

_“I think I’ll decide who I trust.”_

 

Hanzo was so sure of his ability to execute that he was unsure of his ability to protect. When he first came to Overwatch, Mei had asked him to teach her some hand-to-hand combat after seeing him practice on his own. Hanzo knew it was not only a polite request for a lesson, it was at the same time, a request for a potential friendship. Hanzo knew this, as he held Mei’s gaze, and he remembered all the necks he has snapped in the past twenty-one years, and he had to wonder what it was like to attack and not take a life.

 

Hanzo refused her, politely. Mei accepted, politely.

 

Then Hanzo asked Athena if the base have any training dummies they wouldn’t mind him breaking.

 

Hanzo practiced for a day, then two, then a week, then two. He broke the dummies, and he fixed them so he could learn not to break them again.

 

When he first started training as a young boy, things were easy, technical. He fought with a simulating robot with an instructor by his side.

 

Then he grew up, the simulating bot became a real person. And his instructor said Hanzo needed to find a way to protect himself before his opponent took Hanzo’s life first. If he died, it just meant he was not good enough for the Shimada family.

 

As a kid, Hanzo believed they were telling the truth. And he had to break someone’s neck to save his own.

 

As a young adult, Hanzo thought they were bluffing, because there was no way they were going to kill the heir.

 

Now as a traitor to his family, Hanzo believed his family was indeed telling the truth. They would have accepted his death with a cold gaze, and moved on to his brother.

 

Hanzo shuddered at the thought of Genji in his place.

 

Hanzo wanted to get used to not taking a life.

 

That was how Jesse McCree found him, surrounded by broken dummies and less broken dummies. McCree nudged one of them with his foot, and the dummy gave a reflective punch, but it was slow and jerky. Hanzo paid him no mind, setting new ones up to the hardest level, and went again.

 

McCree leaned by the wall to watch, and it unnerved Hanzo more than he liked to admit, watched by one of the most dangerous agents, and the one who was the most antagonistic toward Hanzo’s presence on base. Every time Hanzo landed a punch too hard to be friendly or kicked hard enough to break a bone, he could feel the legitimacy of McCree’s disapproval weighing more and more on him.

 

Hanzo did not know why McCree was conniving his presence.

 

The punch smashed through the dummy’s abdomen, Hanzo watched it crumbled to the ground, and sighed in defeat.

 

“Up for a round with a real person?”

 

Hanzo froze.

 

McCree sauntered into view. He was wearing his training clothes, which was no shirt and a fitted compression Capri short. Hanzo tore his eyes away from the muscle underneath the spandex and met McCree’s eyes.

 

McCree’s eyes were not at all like Mei’s. It was not friendly, nor soft. It had wrinkles around it. And it was a deeper shade of brown. It was much – Hanzo cut himself off.

 

“I do not think that is wise,” Hanzo replied.

 

“Why? You think you’re so good?”

 

Hanzo looked around at the broken dummies in a lame attempt at conveying his stress without saying it, but it seemed McCree was having none of it, and pointedly waited for a response.

 

“I am not trustworthy,” Hanzi said in the end.

 

McCree huffed, unimpressed. He kicked the dummies out of the way and face Hanzo again.

 

“I think I’ll decide who I trust.”

 

Hanzo looked at McCree, at his eyes, and there was still no softness, no cordiality, no polite invitation.

 

McCree lowered his body into a fighting stance, waiting patiently for Hanzo to follow suit.

 

And Hanzo saw trust in a man that did not like him.

 

Hanzo raised his arms, readied.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

McCree followed orders for the first half of his life, and even though he was good at it, didn’t mean he liked it. _McCree, kill that guy, or McCree, infiltrate that place._ Then. _Agent McCree, kill that guy. Agent McCree, infiltrate that place_.

 

McCree got so sick of it that one time, a locum tenens told him he should smoke less. McCree was hurting, losing blood, and just got out of a sticky mission, hearing this just made him snapped, punched a dent into the shitty wall, and told the doctor to go fuck himself. Reyes had to step in and convince the doctor to not report McCree, but McCree still had to fill in a shit load of paperwork to explain why he tried to assault someone giving him medical advice.

 

When he left Blackwatch, despite the unyielding sense of guilt that dwelled at the back of his thoughts, McCree had the urge to scream, and bellow, and laugh at no one.

 

And he did, because there had finally been no one to tell him no.

 

When he got the recall, McCree only answered because, well, Winston was a swell guy, and McCree always liked him.

 

But why McCree decided to go back was because – he was given a choice. _“Are you with me?”_ Winston’s words were frim and earnest, he was bearing his ideals out, not giving orders.

 

And McCree decided he was.

 

He came back, because he wanted to. McCree wanted to see what could be different this time. If people could change.

 

Overwatch greeted him with old friends and a familiar stranger. Hanzo was someone McCree doubted even before knowing him. A man like Hanzo in an organization trying to do good don’t mix well; it reminded him constantly of the old Overwatch, the potential for doing the right thing and the wrong thing, and how easy it was to go wrong.

 

Then he saw Hanzo, surrounded by broken machineries, and McCree had almost laughed at the sight because really, at the time, any sign of Hanzo in distress made his day.

 

But in the time he was watching, McCree realized Hanzo was trying to _not_ break his opponent, although it seemed if something was charging toward him, Hanzo’s first instinct was to decimate it.

 

McCree watched Hanzo for weeks, wondering what the hell he was doing and if it was some kind of ninja training. Then in a passing conversation, Mei told him that Hanzo refused her request to coach her, and suddenly it clicked.

 

McCree finally stepped out of his hiding spot that evening, to offer his assistance.

 

Hanzo declined. As though he knew what was best for McCree.

 

McCree will decide what he wants, and that day, he decided to trust Hanzo.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo is learning to trust himself to be good enough, and McCree will decide for himself who he should love.


	8. Chapter 8

Hanzo woke from the dream.

 

For the first few moments of waking up, he thought it really was three years ago, and he and McCree were just starting to fall together. He wondered what made him dream of that (it was such a long time ago), maybe it was because he had a training session with Mei today (he had been teaching her for over two years now), maybe it was because he hadn’t talked to Jesse since their conversation two days ago.

 

Three years ago that day, McCree and Hanzo punched and kneed and grappled each other until they were bruising everywhere. Purples and reds covered them as they panted heavily on the training room floor. McCree got up first, dragged Hanzo to his feet.

 

“I use the shooting range every Tuesday and Friday at 6 a.m.,” McCree said, walking away.

 

“And what good is that information to me?” Hanzo replied.

 

McCree turned back briefly to give Hanzo a look, it was condescending and amused and kind all at once, it made Hanzo swallow back any retort he might have had.

 

“There’re two targets, ain’t there?”

 

Then he left.

 

Hanzo would never have admitted it, he barely realized this himself, but in the few months of joining Overwatch, that was perhaps the first time he smiled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hanzo found McCree in the kitchen, listening to something on his phone. Hanzo knew his arrival was not lost on McCree, because despite Hanzo’s stealth training, McCree could sense a fly landing without seeing it (the capability of this man still both frighten and awed Hanzo at the same time).

 

But McCree did not look up from his phone, sipping his coffee occasionally. He didn’t move a muscle even when Hanzo sat the small white box down next to him.

 

“Jesse,” Hanzo called.

 

McCree slowly lifted his face up to Hanzo, not acknowledging the box. Hanzo pushed it silently toward McCree, and McCree pushed it back.

 

“Open it,” Hanzo said.

 

“I don’t want to,” McCree replied.

 

Hanzo sat down next to McCree and let out a tired sigh. McCree took his earbuds out. Hanzo could hear faint whispers of a song coming out for a brief second before McCree paused it. He couldn’t make out the song.

 

“I noticed that apologizing is all I have been doing for the past few weeks,” Hanzo said. His tone bitter. “And I suppose that is yet another reason why I am a less than adequate partner.”

 

McCree stood so abruptly the chair made a shrill and skin-crawling sound. Hanzo’s hands reached out to stop McCree from leaving, and he could feel the tensed muscle, shaking with unsaid doldrums beneath his fingers; Hanzo supposed he hadn’t give McCree any reason to be anything but despondent lately, and he reminded himself once again he should have just told all the wrong thoughts to McCree instead of trying desperately to find the right words by himself. McCree was trembling, and it was a wonder he didn’t break Hanzo’s fingers.

 

But Hanzo knew McCree wouldn’t. A selfish part of him knew that McCree’s patience was reserved to Hanzo. His hands guided McCree to sit back down, and softly glided them up, cupping McCree’s face.

 

“Ever since this…discussion started,” Hanzo said. McCree rolled his eyes (it made him look so young). “I kept being reminded why I never choose to be with someone before. This is work, it is difficult, and I think, before I met you, I did not believe anyone would be worth this much effort.”

 

Hanzo leaned forward, pressing his forehead to McCree’s and prayed he wouldn’t notice how raw and wary Hanzo was at this moment. The words got stuck in his throat, momentarily, and Hanzo feared he might run again – to just press his lips to McCree’s and pretend he didn’t have anything to say after all.

 

But he reminded himself of the things he never knew could give him pleasure - like the way McCree’s eyes lingers on him when Hanzo walk into the room; the sight of yellow post-it notes scattered around their room, with McCree’s unexpected elegant handwriting on it, or the time Hanzo found one of McCree’s bullet in his stash of arrowheads and felt no contradiction seeing it there, how he was more than content to leave it so.

 

Jesse deserved everything from Hanzo – red string or not.

 

“I love you,” Hanzo murmured, pressing his lips gently to McCree’s eyebrows. “I love you, Jesse McCree. I have never once before in my life felt this way before, it must be…I cannot for a single second think I will feel anything but the utmost affection and respect for you.”

 

Beneath him, McCree’s voice trembled. He paused, stifled a sob, then tried his best to form words, “Han – ” Another sob cut him off, and McCree abandoned words in favor of wrapping Hanzo in his arms, tipping him back.

 

Behind them, the door to the kitchen cracked open, but neither could bring themselves to move. Hana appeared in the doorway, and it took her two seconds to register.

 

She locked eyes with McCree for a moment. On her young face was a strange understanding, like she had seen this coming, or seen it before. She gripped her fingers tightly. Then, out of nowhere, she balled up her left fist, and used her right to give it a middle finger.

 

McCree grinned. Hana nodded, and left.

 

Hearing the door click shut, Hanzo murmured against McCree’s shoulder, “Will you open the box now?”

 

McCree pulled back and did so. A rock fell into his palm.

 

“It was from the mission, where we sat and waited for backup together,” Hanzo said.

 

There were a lot of missions like that – but McCree knew it was the same mission he kept close to his heart. They had sat in ruins and rubbles, broken and holding onto each other. The day McCree decided he wanted Hanzo by his side. The same mission where they started the habit of staying by the other person’s sickbed so they won’t have to wake up alone. The mission where Hanzo kissed him after McCree woke up and smiled at seeing Hanzo by his bed.

 

McCree thought he was the sentimental fool. The tiny rock proved him wrong.

 

“I saw this rock in my drawer and remembered why I kept it,” Hanzo said. “And I wondered why I was ever concerned in the first place.”

 

“Because you’re an idiot,” McCree said.

 

Hanzo smiled. “It would seem so.”

 

“So we’ll try,” McCree said. “We’ll try to keep us together.”

 

“We’ll try.”

 

“We’ll try because we love each other – not because of anything else.”

 

“We will.”

 

The first of the many times to come, Hanzo forgot about the red strings. Backlighted by the sunset shining through the windows, Hanzo could barely see it on his finger. Sunset, the sounds of seagulls, the dusky moon in the sky, the prospect of soulmates were reduced to dim thoughts as Hanzo and McCree rest, in each other’s arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone was wondering: McCree was listening to "Can't Help Falling In Love"


End file.
